


There's a Magic in the Air

by ladyknightley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightley/pseuds/ladyknightley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is determined to buy his wife a Christmas present this year. But he might need a little help from a certain Nicholas Saint...</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Magic in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t read this expecting anything other than pure, unadulterated schmaltz. But I make no apologies. It’s (almost!) Christmas :)

 

Money would have been tight anyway that year: his hours had been cut, and both Fred and George had started school in September, meaning there were two lots of school things to buy, and Charlie had been made Quidditch Captain too, and he wanted a new broom and, well, they couldn’t exactly say no, he hadn’t asked for the most expensive model and then—and _then_!—at the end of September, just as the bad weather started to set in for good, the roof collapsed.

Not the whole roof, just the part over the left side of the house, and mercifully no one was injured. That was the main thing, he told himself over and over: Molly, Ron and Ginny had all been in the house at the time and they could’ve been badly hurt, or something worse, something he couldn’t even think about. And they hadn’t been, and that _was_ the main thing. But. Although several builders could repair the roof with magic, he and Molly could not magic up money to pay them, and the incident wiped out the last of their savings.

His wonderful wife, showing a resilience that impressed him even after all their years of marriage, made do, and somehow managed to find enough money to buy a couple of small Christmas presents for each of their children, so they would at least have something new to open on the day itself, in addition to the now-expected jumper and homemade sweets. But for the first time ever, he would be unable to afford to buy his wife anything for Christmas.

It wasn’t that she’d ever expected riches. And even if she had, he thought with something approaching irony, after their many years together, she’d have lowered her expectations by now. But he’d always managed to get her _something_ each year, and usually something frivolous and fun. There had been a couple of years when he’d had to make do with getting her a “practical” gift—the wool she’d need, to make everyone’s jumpers, or the year he’d bought her a new winter cloak because hers just wouldn’t take any more darning by magical or muggle methods—but he’d always managed at least one gift before now.

He’d confessed this to her one night in late October, feeling smaller than he’d ever felt before. He didn’t have two spare Knuts to rub together, and so she shouldn’t expect anything at all from him on Christmas Day. She’d dismissed his sorrow and shame at once—the important thing, she said, was that they had a roof over their heads; that they were warm and always had food on the table; that on Christmas Day, they’d have lots of delicious things to eat in addition to the usual fare, and, most of all, that the children would have presents. _That_ was what mattered, she said. She didn’t need anything.

And he agreed with all of it—except her last point. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

The very next day, as though someone with a rather unfair sense of humour had been listening to them talk the night before, something changed. Two things, really. Firstly, he arrived in work to find a note on his desk from someone in Payroll. It was a long, complicated missive, and truth be told he didn’t understand most of their calculations (having spent most Arithmancy classes at school staring at the very pretty girl called Molly Prewett who sat two desks over from him) but the important bit was that somehow the admin team had been paying him two Galleons less than he was actually supposed to have been paid since May. His pay would be corrected from this month, it informed him, and—this made his heart leap—he would be given his backpay separately at end of November, if he could just initial the appropriate forms and return them.

He nearly knocked over his bottle of ink in his hurry to sign.

He would not tell Molly about the extra money, taking it out of their account at Gringotts before she had a chance to notice it was there. She hadn’t expected it, so she wouldn’t miss it when she was shopping for food and other necessities. And he would use it _all_ to buy her a Christmas gift. It was the least she deserved.

That lunchtime, out for a stroll along Diagon Alley, he happened to look into the window of the jewellers’ and saw a pair of pearl earrings. They would, he reflected, be perfect for Molly—they were simple and understated, but still beautiful—and best of all, when he enquired as to the price, they were just about affordable with his extra money. The jeweller was a very nice woman who agreed at once to mark the earrings as sold, and for him to pay in instalments for them. It was agreed that he would make the final payment on Christmas Eve, just after his final payday on his higher salary, and she would keep them safe for him until then.

Arthur walked back to the office feeling happier than he had in a long time. It was as though the universe had decided to bestow an early Christmas present on him, the way everything had fallen into place in just a few hours. Best of all, for the first time since he had bought their wedding rings, he would be able to give his wife a brand new piece of jewellery as a gift. Even her engagement ring had been second-hand—although, as it had been her grandmother’s, it held sentimental value—but here he was, able to give her something brand new, and a surprise to boot.

Now the only hard part would be keeping the secret until Christmas Day.

* * *

November passed in a flurry of strong winds and rain, but the roof held and the Weasleys had no other catastrophes befall them. The children grew excited as each day passed in December and the house became more and more Christmassy—every day, the air filled with the smell of delicious baking; a tree went up in the living room and garlands of holly decorated the house elsewhere. Ginny took it upon herself to make everyone a Christmas card, using so much glitter that for a while you couldn’t touch anything anywhere in the house without coating yourself in sparkles, and the less said about Ron, the ghoul, and the paperchain incident the better.

But on the whole, it was one of the happiest Decembers he could remember, and Arthur often caught himself feeling like the luckiest man in the world just for getting to spend it with his family.

Excitement only rose when the elder boys arrived home from Hogwarts: it was not long now until the big day, and everyone was back, the house filled from morning to night with the sound of laughter and chatter. As though they’d managed to bring part of the Scottish climate home in their trunks, the day after they all went to pick them up at King’s Cross, it started to snow. Ron and Ginny especially were almost apoplectic with excitement, and even Arthur had a thrill at just how festive and lovely the outside looked; the Christmas lights on the tree outside and the holly wreath on the door looking positively picture-perfect when dusted with the white stuff.

He should have known it was too good to last.

Three days before Christmas, he was just getting ready to leave for work when he heard a loud shriek and a crash from the kitchen. Dashing down the hallway, he arrived to see his poor wife looking very upset, and their wireless smashed to smithereens on the floor. “I slipped coming inside—my shoes were wet from the snow,” Molly explained, once he had ascertained that she was okay. “I’m not hurt at all, but I’m afraid the wireless is beyond repair.”

Arthur, who rather enjoyed tinkering with things and thus had grown rather skilled at mending broken items over the year, was forced to agree with her. “I can’t fix that,” he agreed, studying the many tiny pieces all over the floor. “But I’m sure there must be somewhere on Diagon Alley that can fix them—I’ll take it along today.” He set about gathering all the little pieces he could find into an old satchel.

Molly sighed. “I don’t think it’s likely to be repairable even with magic; it’s too badly damaged,” she said. “And I was so looking forward to listening to Celestina on Christmas Eve...”

“Well, I’ll ask the people in the shop, but we might have to buy a new one,” conceded Arthur. “But that wouldn’t be a bad thing—you’d have a wireless in time for the concert tomorrow! A repair might take longer.”

“It’ll be expensive either way,” Molly said, shaking her head. “I suppose there’s no harm in asking, but I don’t think it’s likely we’ll be able to afford a new one until into the spring, and that’s if we manage to avoid any more catastrophes like the roof...” She attempted a laugh, clearly trying to sound light-hearted, but it didn’t quite work.

Arthur felt the familiar twinge of guilt. She never complained about anything, never even hinted that things would be easier if only they had some more money, but he knew she thought it. And she gave up so much for the children, always sacrificing whatever she could if it would make them happy, but listening to the programmes on the wireless was one of the simple pleasures that she still could enjoy. Having music or Witches Hour on in the background whilst she did her knitting or cooked or cleaned was something she loved, and she especially loved listening to Celestina Warbeck’s annual Christmas concert. He had consoled himself, when he’d realised she wouldn’t be getting a present, with the knowledge that at least this Christmas tradition could remain – but now it seemed that even this was to be taken from her.

That settled it. “Leave it with me,” he promised, picking up the final pieces from the floor and standing up. “I’ll see if I can’t rustle up something from somewhere. And you never know—maybe the broken parts will only cost a couple of knuts each!”

He could tell she didn’t believe this either, but she didn’t know about his secret savings, or the earrings. He could go back to the jewellers, get his money back, and use it to get the wireless fixed, or to buy a new one. Molly would still have the thing she loved—and in time for Christmas—and she’d not been expecting a gift, anyway. It would work. Sort of.

“Just don’t sell your kidneys, or something daft like that,” she chuckled, brushing off his clothes.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” he replied, whilst wondering about the practicalities of doing just that in three days. “Don’t you worry.”

“Of course I won’t,” Molly smiled. “Now, here’s your lunch. You have a good day now—and I’ll see you when you get home.” He kissed her, picked up his work bag and the satchel containing all the parts of the wireless, and headed for the door.

* * *

Arthur couldn’t remember ever seeing Nicholas Saint’s Wireless Repairs and Sales shop on Diagon Alley before, although it was slightly tucked away, just before the turn into Knockturn Alley. He supposed it had always been there, though, because when he pushed open the door, he found a small workshop stuffed to the brim with radios and related accoutrements. It was cosy and warm inside, with the soft lighting giving a very festive glow to everything. As the door fell closed, the bell above it jingled merrily, and a cheerful voice called out “Just a moment!” from the back.

The owner of the voice appeared after a few moments: a huge old man, with a long white beard and a head full of white hair, wearing a simple shirt and a lively pair of red trousers, held up with matching red suspenders. “Hello,” said the man. “How can I help you?”

Arthur blinked once, then came forwards. “I was wondering if you might advise me about the best course of action with my wireless,” he said, placing the bag containing its remains on the counter. “It got smashed this morning, and I would like to get it mended—unless you think it’s beyond repair, in which case I should like to buy a new one.”

“Let’s have a look,” he said, drawing up a stool and sitting down before opening the bag. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he sighed at once, studying its contents.

“That good, eh?” Arthur asked.

“I’m afraid so,” nodded the man, not unsympathetically. “I can see traces of magical repair from earlier—yours?”

Arthur nodded. “I can make simple repairs, but I’m not a craftsman, so anything complicated is beyond me.”

“You _could_ pay for this to be repaired,” said the man, “but the cost of parts, plus labour, would be more than what you’d pay for an entirely new model.”

“I thought as much,” Arthur said. “In that case, what models do you have in at the moment?”

“All of them,” the man replied. “We’ve quite a workshop here. What are you looking for in particular?”

“Nothing fancy, just a basic wireless,” he said. “I’m not fussed about size or colour; I’ll buy whatever’s cheapest, no matter what it looks like, if you can give me something reasonably sturdy and long-lasting.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” said the man cheerfully, squeezing out from behind the counter and beckoning Arthur over to a shelf near the doorway. “The Donner-Blitzen,” he said, pointing to a row of fairly hefty-looking wirelesses. "They’re a German brand, one of the best. It comes in any colour you’d like as long as it’s black; it’s not the prettiest, but they are very reliable, and come with extra cushioning charms in case of incidents like that one,” he pointed to the remains of Arthur’s radio on the counter. “Does what you’d want from a radio, no fancy bells and whistles.”

“Sounds good,” Arthur said. “How much?”

The man named his price. It was one Sickle and three Knuts less than the amount Arthur had intended to spend on the earrings for his wife, and he winced. There was no way Molly was getting anything more exciting than a discounted box of chocolates this Christmas...

“Do you have anything cheaper?” he asked.

“Only the Vixen models,” he said. “And they tend to be outdated and very unreliable—I’d see you back in here before the new year with a problem with it, I’ve no doubt, and truth be told the Donner-Blitzen would cost you far less in the long run. It comes with a ten year guarantee.”

Arthur bit his lip. “Do you have any second-hand models?” he asked.

The man looked genuinely sorry as he shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I don’t really tend to come across them—people tend to hang on to their wirelesses until they completely give up the ghost, then just buy a new one. A few, like yourself, will fettle them up a bit over the years, but mostly they go in the rubbish when they’re done. The Donner-Blitzen is a very good model for the price, but it is still a lot of money. I understand.”

“No, I’ll take one,” Arthur said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. The man was, after all, being very nice and fair, and not pushing for the sale at all. “I just need to withdraw some money; could you reserve one for me, and I’ll pick it up after work tonight, about five? What time do you close?”

“Oh, we’re working day and night here, at this time of year,” chuckled the man. “But five should be fine. I’ll see you then, Arthur.”

Arthur thanked him and left, the bell over the door jingling merrily as he opened the door. He wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly against the cold, and sighed deeply. All along Diagon Alley, people were talking and laughing together in small groups, the Christmas spirit infecting everyone with joy and happiness—everyone, he thought grumpily, except himself.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, he thought, trying to reason with himself. Molly would have her wireless, so she’d have a Christmas present, of sorts. She would know what it would be, and it would be yet another year when she received something from him that was more of a practical necessity than a luxurious gift, but it would be _something_. And maybe he could pick her up a box of the sugar mice she liked so much, too, just so she’d have something to open on Christmas Day.

A group of children pushed past him, all shrieking with glee, and his heart softened, remembering how he and Molly had stood in the kitchen window last night and watched all of their children having a snowball fight in the back garden. They had been so happy, and maybe that was all that mattered.

There was always next year. Or her birthday. He could get her something fancy then...

He stepped sideways to allow a group of elderly ladies to shuffle past, laden down with parcels and bags of shopping, then suddenly slowed to a halt outside the toy shop, a thought striking him. He was _sure_ he hadn’t told the man in the wireless shop his name, and yet he’d addressed him as Arthur on his way out. And, come to think of it, it was very strange that he couldn’t ever remember seeing the shop before—and he’d been coming to Diagon Alley for many, many years now. It was all very odd, he thought, staring off into space.

It happened very quickly, then: staring into the middle distance, lost in thought, he was jerked out of his reverie by a shout. The roof of Twilfit and Tattings was being retiled, but one of the workmen had slipped; he caught his balance but in doing so, knocked over a pile of tiles waiting to be attached to the roof. And in that moment, time seemed to slow down for Arthur: he saw the two children playing in the snow whilst their mother talked to a friend, oblivious, saw the tiles heading straight for them, and, quicker than he knew how, leapt across the road and pushed them out of the way.

The tiles missed him by a fraction of an inch, and they hit the ground with a heavy, metallic thud. There was half a second of total silence, then the children’s mother screamed, and suddenly the whole Alley, or so it felt, came rushing over. The two children—boys, he now saw, the eldest probably only about five—were completely unharmed except for a grazed knee on the younger boy, and indeed seemed to have quite enjoyed the adventure of escaping death so easily. Their mother was in complete shock, gulping back sobs as she stammered and stuttered her thanks to Arthur, who brushed it off, embarrassed. About half the shoppers seemed to want to help her, bringing out handkerchiefs and her medicinal Firewhiskey (“For the fright, you know,”), whilst the other half wanted to shake Arthur’s hand or applaud him in some way.

“No, honestly, it was nothing,” he said, as he was patted on the back by about twelve people at once.

It was no use: the entire street was in uproar. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” cried one old woman, whilst someone else declared him a hero. And Arthur wanted to say that no, it wasn’t, that he was just in the right place at the right time, that he’d just done what anyone would have done, that he hadn’t planned it, or even thought, but they seemed determined to heap praise on him. Maybe that was what people wanted at this time of year: a bit of drama that could be passed off as a festive miracle, proof of divine intervention, or just the good nature of people after all.

But still. The boys were safe and well—more than well, in fact, as the sweetshop owner had offered them as many free sweeties and chocolates as they wanted as a reward—their mother was going to be fine, and even the workmen were being comforted. No one blamed them; it was a complete accident that, in the end, hadn’t hurt anyone.

Eventually, Arthur was able to extract himself from the madness, protesting that he really must get back off to work. One last handshake, one last thank you, one last pat on the back, and he was off, away from the crowd. As he headed on down the Alley, however, he looked up, and caught the eye of the man who ran the wireless shop. It was funny: he was standing well apart from everyone else, and his shop was much further down the street from where the accident had occurred. But it was the funniest thing: as their eyes met, Arthur had the strangest feeling that the man, whoever he was, had caused the accident, and forced Arthur to act.

He shook himself. “Don’t be daft,” he said aloud. “No one would do that. Maybe you need to check none of those tiles fell on your head...”

* * *

Given the excitement of the rest of the day, the afternoon dragged, dull and boring. At half four, Arthur packed up his things and flooed to Diagon Alley, calling first on the jeweller. She gave him back his money straight away, seeming disappointed, and not just to lose the sale. But he didn’t want pity, or kindly glances, and so he all but snatched his Galleons from her hand, heading down to the opposite end of the shopping street, to Nicholas Saint’s shop. There were, he was relieved to see, no more accidents along the way, and no one left from his lunchtime ‘heroics’ to spot him.

It was almost five when he let himself into the wireless shop, the bell once again jingling far more merrily than he felt the day deserved. The jolly fat man, still dressed in red, was humming to himself, back turned, something about having a merry little Christmas, which further cemented Arthur’s bad mood. _His_ troubles may have been far away, but all of his own were very present, and all came back to one thing: money. It was so dispiriting.

Slowly, the man turned, smiling brightly on seeing who his customer was. Indeed, he appeared so happy that Arthur couldn’t help giving an involuntary grin back. “Ah, it’s the hero of the hour,” said the man, chuckling merrily. Arthur coughed awkwardly, knowing that the tips of his ears would have gone red. It was the one tic he could never control.

“I wouldn’t go that far...” he offered feebly.

“Oh, pish,” said the man. “Now, about your radio.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, wanting to get the transaction over with as soon as possible. There was a funny smell in the shop—not unpleasant, as such, but strong and sort of cold—and he was suddenly filled with a desire to be home, as soon as possible. “I’ve got the payment.”

“Ah,” said the man, and his heart started to sink. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. Your radio, the one you bought in this morning, you left it here. And this afternoon, I managed to fix it.”

At first, Arthur thought he had heard wrong. The wireless had smashed into so many pieces that, even if there hadn’t been several dozen little bits missing, _reparo_ and a hundred other charms just wouldn’t have been enough magic to fix it. And yet, here it was being pushed towards him. “This is...the same one, right?” he asked, but even as he stared at it, he saw that it was. The scratches and dents all of his children had managed to mark it with, over the years, were there. The smears on the dial that Molly was never able to remove, much to her consternation, were back in place. It even, he noticed (feeling rather foolish, sniffing it in the middle of the shop) had a faint scent of _home_ attached to it that he was sure he’d never noticed before.

“This is your device,” said the man, looking slightly smug. “I managed to sort it. It really didn’t take that long, in the end.”

“I—oh. Well. Thank you,” stammered Arthur. “Thank you very much.”

“It was no trouble!” beamed the man.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he repeated. “Er. How much...?”

“How much...oh! Of course. Well. It’ll be nothing,” said the man.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing at all!” he said again. “You see,” he added, suddenly giving him an almost Dumbledore-esque look over his glasses, “I saw what happened.”

“To...to the radio?”

“No, you daft bugger,” said the man. “Earlier, on the Alley. You’re a hero! You saved—”

“Oh, not that again!” Arthur exclaimed. “That was an accident! I mean, I only did what anyone would have done! I’m no-one special; I’m not a hero! I just wanted to help, and I was _lucky_.”

“Be that as it may,” said the man, “two children owe you their lives. You have children?”

“Seven,” he replied, throat suddenly dry.

“Well, then,” said the man, and he didn’t, really, have to say anything else.

“At least let me pay you for your labour,” said Arthur. “And there must’ve been some parts you had to get, and—”

“Mr Weasley,” said the man. “I do not think one has to be a world class Divination expert to know that there is something else you would much rather spend your hard earned cash on.” Arthur thought of Molly’s face as she opened the earrings on Christmas Day. He could picture it almost perfectly.

He opened his mouth then closed it again.

“No?” said the man in red.

“But...” Arthur said. He really, really, _really_ wanted to give Molly her fixed wireless _and_ the earrings. It wasn’t like he was stealing, or taking for his own gain...but it wasn’t right to just accept it all for free...

“Do I have to hex you to get you out of my shop?” said the man fiercely, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“No!” said Arthur, picking up the radio, “but you must let me pay—”

“No!”

“It’s not right that—”

“ _No_!”

“Please, I have the Galleons, look—”

“Go and buy your wife her present,” said the man. “Spend your money on that.”

“I—”

“Go!”

“Look,” said Arthur desperately. “There must be _something_ I can do to pay you.”

The man paused, and Arthur felt triumphant. He didn’t really begrudge paying the money for the wireless—he had, after all, done a fantastic job repairing the wireless. It was the one he had bought in, but it was in better condition, almost, than when he and Molly had first purchased it a decade and a half ago. “Well...there is one thing you could do,” he said.

“Name it,” Arthur said fervently.

“On Christmas Eve,” said the man, “make sure you leave out some mince pies, and a sherry. And a carrot wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“A...a carrot?”

“The sherry’s the important part,” the man said. “I do love a sherry.”

“I...”

“Look, man, the shop’ll be closed if you don’t get down there soon!” the man in red said, pushing Arthur towards the door. “Go and get your wife her gift. And have a Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Arthur said, feeling totally bemused. “And thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Go!” called the man, as he stepped out onto Diagon Alley. Arthur waved vaguely, tucking the wireless securely into his bag, then started to run towards the jewellery shop. If he could just get there before it closed...

“Don’t forget the sherry!” followed him down the street, and Arthur vowed that he wouldn’t.

But never mind sherry, he thought, as he reached the jewellers which had decided to stay open an extra half-hour today _and_ hadn’t sold the earrings, maybe Perkins had put some _Felix Felicis_ in his afternoon tea. It was the only explanation...

“Would you like them gift wrapped?” said the jeweller.

“Yes, please,” said Arthur, proudly laying out the Galleons on the counter.

“Merry Christmas!” said the jeweller, once she had finished.

“And to you,” said Arthur. “And have a very happy new year!” He hid the earrings, beautifully packaged, inside his cloak pocket, then apparated home.

He landed in a snowdrift almost knee deep and shivered involuntarily. London had been cold, but there had been no snow. His own garden, however, looked like a Christmas card. Which was funny, he realised, coming to a sudden halt, halfway up the garden path, because the funny smell in the shop, the one he couldn’t place—it had been the smell of freshly fallen snow.

“Arthur? Is that you?” He hurried inside at the sound of his wife calling him. “Hello dear,” she said, fussing with him immediately. “How was your day?”

Gently, he brushed her aside, placing the bag containing the wireless on the table. “Look!” he said, and Molly gasped, reaching inside.

“You never... _how_?!” she asked, delighted. “It looks...better than new!”

“I know,” laughed Arthur, “incredible isn’t it?”

“I...but...wow!” said Molly, lifting it carefully and placing it securely back on the shelf, adding a few cushioning charms around it for good measure. “But how much did it cost?” she asked, sound slightly worried, once that had been done.

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur said cheerfully. “It’s all sorted.”

“But how?” she pressed. “We don’t have the money for—”

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Only two sleeps ’til Christmas Day! Are you excited Daddy? I’m so excited!” Arthur always felt overjoyed to see his only daughter, but today he felt particularly happy as she leapt into his arms, gabbling away. Her entrance precipitated the rest of his children clattering downstairs, distracting their mother, and letting him off the hook—for now.

* * *

“...so then, he insisted that the only payment he would take was putting out sherry and mince pies on Christmas Eve! What do you think of that?!”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Well, I had suspected Bill of taking the sherry,” she said. “Although he swears he didn’t...”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Arthur commented, carefully removing his new jumper.

His wife, already tucked up in bed, hummed. “It is,” she said, “but I’m glad you spent your work bonus on these earrings. They are so beautiful. And I’m the luckiest woman in the world to have them _and_ a radio _and_ you!”

“You deserve them,” he said simply. When she’d unwrapped them, she’d looked exactly as he’d imagined.

She brushed off his remark, but he could tell she was pleased. “What did you say the name of the wireless shop was, again?” she asked.

“Nicholas Saint’s,” said Arthur. “And it’s funny, because I don’t remember it being there before, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Molly replied thoughtfully. “How odd. Huh.”

“What?”

“Well...maybe...it’s just magic. It _is_ Christmas, after all,” she said.

“Yes, but—”

“ _Arthur_.”

“What?” he asked, startled by her firm tone.

“Look what I’m wearing.”

He looked. “The earrings? You like them, then?”

“Of course I like them, you plonker,” she laughed. “But guess what _else_ I’m wearing.”

He couldn’t.

“Nothing!” she said triumphantly, and he finished undressing in a hurry, all thoughts of Nicholas Saint, and the jolly man in red, pushed from his mind.


End file.
